"Obviously." Jay stumbles after him, trying to stay close without encroaching, wherever that line in the sand is. He pulls his arms tighter around himself, cold in spite of the summer night humidity, always cold. He lets out a cough, not nearly so destroyed as the noises Tim tends to make but it's enough to rip something loose. He stops short for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the ground, the sensation of memory flooding back is both getting old and hilariously novel, remember idiot, you got yourself killed, you died, Jay; this can't be happening because he and Tim are both in Manhattan now, some alternate universe bullshit, so they're dreaming, again.

And Tim doesn't know it's him.

Tim probably dreams about this shit a lot.

He looks up slowly, his breath coming out shaky. "Tim?"